Of Stars and Flying
by quiet-december
Summary: A Vegas tag: He dreams of flying.


**Of Stars and Flying  
**by quiet_december

_Evening's brief light had faded away, and the desert sky was perfectly clear -- like looking up into a pool of water._

Gen, rated K+, **spoilers** for 5x19 "Vegas". ~750 words. Warning for ambiguous ending -- I tried really hard to make it happy, but it just wouldn't cooperate! I avoided reading other people's "Vegas" tags while I was writing this, so any similarities are purely coincidental.

(Disclaimer: I own nothing. Especially not _Stargate Atlantis._)

* * *

John didn't remember passing out. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the blood on his shirt had dried stiff against his skin. (Didn't take long, out here -- the dry air cracked lips and hands like empty waterholes, burned eyes bloodshot, turned fresh bread to croutons in a couple of minutes.)

Evening's brief light had faded away, and the desert sky was perfectly clear -- like looking up into a pool of water. Thinking of water made him thirsty; his tongue rasped like sandpaper over split lips. There had been a bottle of water in his car, but it was probably shot full of holes now.

_Aliens._ He was lying out here in the godforsaken desert, bleeding to death, because he'd been shot by an _alien._ Danielle would have had a hearty laugh at his expense. Then she would have gotten around to saving his life: _John, look at me, you keep your eyes open, do you hear me? Don't give up, John... don't you die on me... dammit, soldier, eyes open! That's an order!_

But Danielle wasn't here because she'd died anyway, along with everybody else.

He'd told himself, after that, that he would never care about anything ever again. It was a promise he'd kept for a long time, but tonight he was lying in the midst of burning wreckage, wondering why nobody had bothered to show up, and it _hurt_ in a way he'd thought he would never feel again_._

_"I met another version of you once,"_ Dr. McKay had said. _"He was a hero,"_ he'd said. _"I like to believe you have the same strength of character."_ And John had thought -- had really, really thought -- that McKay would come for him. Would send someone for him, at least.

_Idiot. You're an idiot, John. They'll show up eventually, but it won't be for you. Somebody's gotta clean up this mess._

He shivered. Out here, the temperature dropped fast after sunset. Blood was congealing thick and cool and tacky between the fingers he'd pressed to his belly, and the bleeding still hadn't stopped.

Somewhere up in the mountains a coyote howled, and others joined it, their ancient packsong cutting through the stillness. John's mouth tasted of dust and gunpowder. A breeze stirred his hair, and he shuddered violently, the sudden pain making him cry out: a startled yelp, like a hurt coyote's. Nothing answered.

He drifted then, and dreamed that Danielle leaned over him with stars in her eyes, dreamed that she kissed him with blood on her lips. Dreamed that she laughed and said, _I told you aliens were real,_ and then turned her back and let the creature drain him until he was nothing but powder on the wind.

Worst of all, he dreamed that she looked at him with one remaining eye, with her skull caved in, and that she cried and said, _I would never have wanted you to trade their lives for mine. You knew that. You knew it, you son of a bitch._

He woke, his fingers curled in the dust, pain gnawing with rats' teeth at his side and his shoulder. He thought of his phone lying on the seat, maybe still intact; thought of cold water like a desert sky, water to wash the dirt and blood from his mouth.

He tried to come up with one good reason to get up, to pull his feet beneath him and wake the fires where the bullets had hit. Nothing came to mind, so he didn't move. Someone would show up eventually, and it wouldn't matter where he was when they found him. If anything, moving would just make him bleed more, shortening the time he had left.

John wondered how long it would take the coyotes to catch the scent of his blood. He wondered if he would still be alive when they came down from the mountains and found him lying in the dirt, a feast free for the taking.

He blinked, and it was hard to raise his eyelids, but the stars were beautiful and he wanted to look at them a little longer. It had been so long since he'd seen a night sky untainted by city lights. He tried not to remember that even up there, there was death and suffering. No peace to be found, even among the stars.

After a while the wind faded away, and the desert was still, and John Sheppard closed his eyes and dreamed of flying.

_the end_


End file.
